


skin deep

by shame420 (rhysgore)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bad Sex, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Edgeplay, Electrocution, Eye Trauma, Forced Orgasm, Gun Violence, Hospital Sex, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Marathon Sex, Masturbation, Medicinal Drug Use, Mildly Dubious Consent, Monster Reaper, Multiple Orgasms, Objectification, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scarification, Suicidal Thoughts, Tentacles, Torture, Wound Fucking, Xenophilia, autassassinophilia, did u mean: my religion, even MORE breathplay, feels weird tagging that in this but whatever, male reader - Freeform, this is horribly self-indulgent and i absolutely hate myself for every word of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-07-23 12:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7463616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysgore/pseuds/shame420
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason why he never takes the mask off.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>self-indulgent m!reader/reaper fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @overwatch fans im sorry for being The Worst but there was a noticeable lack of male/dmab reader and my head is up reaper's entire ass so here u go. also as usual, please heed all warnings & read at your own risk. thx :)

_ “Shit.”  _

 

It’s a single word, gritted out roughly somewhere above you, and it sends tingles all the way through your body, making you gasp even as he punches the air from your lungs with every movement. The way he speaks when you fuck is constantly in control, to a degree that even the slightest reaction, the barest hint that you’re doing  _ something  _ right, shoots straight to your dick, pulling and exponentially louder and more embarrassing reaction from you.

 

You’re on your hands and knees, ass in the air, and you’re fairly certain this is what it feels like to be a blow-up doll.

 

It’s not like this shouldn’t be a fairly sweet gig. The man who’s pounding your ass like there’s no tomorrow, he’s some sort of hero, isn’t he? Or terrorist. It’s so easy to mistake one for another nowadays, especially when you’re trying your absolute hardest to keep your head down and not attract attention from anyone who might want to bash it in on a whim. Whatever he is, it doesn’t really matter anyway. He calls himself Reaper, and you, the fucktoy, he calls whatever the hell he wants.

 

_ Bedwarmer for a possible terrorist,  _ you catch yourself thinking, something concrete pulled from your mind amongst the static that’s making all your thoughts blur at the edges. _ Woo. World’s best job. _

 

He’s got one hand on your hips, holding you still as he drives into you, and the claws from his gloves are leaving thinly bleeding lines on the skin there with each hard thrust of his hips. The other hand is on the back of your throat, keeping your head held down against the rough floor, and fuck, your face is going to be scraped up once you’re done here, as well as your hands and knees. The way he punches the air out of you with every sharp snap, the way he’s holding you, it leaves you milliseconds to draw in enough breath to keep conscious.

 

It’s going to be a bitch to explain to your friends the cuts, the banged-up knees, everything, but Reaper doesn’t exactly give a shit about any of your problems. He can’t give enough of a shit to even touch you during sex more than to hold you exactly where he likes you, sweet and submissive and open on the ground or over a table or wherever he’s inevitably found you for a fuck, why would you expect him to give a shit that people give you sympathetic, worried looks when you pass them on the street because they think your boyfriend’s beating you?

 

No, when he fucks you, it’s all about him. He holds you there, and for the next hour you’re the warm hole that he takes out all of his frustration on. Thighs underneath you, spread at an angle that’s perfect for balance, but not particularly comfortable, back arched at a position that’s just bordering painful, sweat pooling in the little divot at the base of your spine- even the view he gets is just what he likes, regardless of what makes you happy.

 

He never undresses for this- shit, he never even takes off the damn mask- and all you’ve seen of his bare skin has been his cock. It’s a… it’s a really nice cock. Dark-skinned, fat, enough that he could break you in two if he really wanted to. He’s got a nice body in general, you  _ will _ give him that much, but he makes up for it by being a total asshole.

 

“Ah-  _ mierda,” _ he mutters, and you just barely catch it, moaning against the floor. “Little slut likes it rough, doesn’t he.” 

 

Fuck, you’re hard. Just because he doesn’t give a shit doesn’t mean it’s not  _ good,  _ that some fucked up part of your brain isn’t reacting to the thrill of danger, the pride of getting any type of tangible reaction out of Reaper, and maybe more than a little bit at the idea of being treated like an object. Whatever it is that’s turning you on, you’re hard to the point of aching, cock dripping messily on the floor between your knees, and you fucking  _ need to come. _

 

In the weeks you’ve been doing this, he’s taught you a lot about yourself that you probably never would have found out on your own, for whatever reason. Embarrassment. Self-consciousness. Name one. 

 

“Little slut should be grateful that there’s someone like me out there willing to fuck him like this and not take advantage. You’ve got an ass people would kill for. I should know.” 

 

For one thing, the idea that he’s literally killed people in order to stick it in you should  _ not _ be making you gasp and try to fuck back on his dick, but here you are, and there he is. Definitely something he taught you. Definitely something not healthy to know about yourself, that it’s arousing for someone who could rip your face off to have some sort of possessive streak aimed towards you.

 

“Can I-” you start, and Reaper pushes your face down  _ harder,  _ concrete rubbing against your nose. You yelp in pain, choke as he cuts off your air completely and the smarmy bastard  _ chuckles _ at it.

 

“Did I say you could speak?” He growls, humor gone in less than three seconds. There’s a rough note to his voice, rougher his usual timbre, which you’ve learned to mean that he’s going to come soon, and you’ll have lost your chance to get off. “I didn’t think I did.”

 

There are only two outcomes when you fuck Reaper- you come on his dick and bear with him taking his sweet time emptying his balls into you while you nearly cry from overstimulation, clenching hard around him in the hopes that he’ll be quick, or you don’t come at all. And while honestly you prefer the first option, it happens  _ very  _ rarely, and usually (although not always) due to the fact that you’d been playing with yourself at the exact time he chose to pay you a special visit.

 

“You’ve got a great ass. So-” he grunts softly, his thrusts losing their perfectly measured pace, control slipping away from him. “So fucking  _ tight.” _ He’s almost animalistic like this, and your dick makes one last valiant attempt to get you up and over that peak, but there’s just not  _ enough.  _ Not enough stimulation, to any part of your body. It’s actually driving you crazy, and you let out a loud groan of frustration. “Going to fill you up so everyone knows that this ass is  _ mine.” _

 

He actually leans down and bites your shoulder when he comes, his stupid mask tilted away from his face while he knows you can’t see, all teeth that feel like he filed them to points pressing in hard enough to make you bleed and just. Fuck this guy. Fuck him for being  _ deliberately  _ crappy in bed, for fucking you just enough for you to keep saying “yes” to him but not enough to actually help you get any lasting satisfaction out of it. Fuck him for pulling out as soon as he’s finished orgasming, for wiping himself off on your thighs, patting you condescendingly on the ass, pulling up his pants, and  _ vanishing  _ without saying anything, leaving you a giddy, high-strung mess on trembling legs with come dripping out of you.

 

And fuck him most of all because you have no doubt he  _ knows  _ what you do next. Still on your hands and knees, you reach behind you and ease two, three fingers into yourself, moaning as you fuck yourself using a mixture of cum and whatever Reaper thought would be a good idea to use to ease the way. This time it’s actual lube, slick and vaguely cherry scented. Lucky you.

 

One time he showed up with his mask and body splattered with blood. He’d ripped your clothes off- literally ripped, ruining one of your favorite shirts- slung one of your legs leg over his shoulder, and pushed in with barely any prep, using the blood of god even knew who as lubricant. You cried from the pain, and came so hard you saw stars. You’d been sore enough the next day that your friends had been concerned, but it had totally been worth it.

 

You barely even touch your own cock when you get yourself off anymore, just enough to get the pipes flowing while you stretch yourself as wide as you can and wish that his dick was still filling you. Two knuckles deep inside yourself rubbing at your prostate and the mental image of him fucking you the way you’ve been fantasizing about since he first propositioned you, and you’re coming all over your hand in no time, making a goddamn mess of just about everything as you moan his name through your orgasm. 

 

It feels filthy, cheap- he could swap you out with a fleshlight and would probably never know the difference, and shit, just thinking that makes your spent dick twitch in interest again, makes your hole clench around the fingers that are still in it.

 

_ Fuck  _ that guy.

 

-

 

“What are you doing.” It’s not emotive enough to be a question. The words are flat and unamused, and maybe slightly disdainful, and you know there’s a good chance Reaper may actually snap and murder you for what you’re about to do, but damnit, you’ve had enough. There are so, so many words for the way he’s been treating you-  _ cumdump _ is the first that springs to mind, and the rest are equally unflattering- and it’s time you took matters into your own hands.

 

He tried to get your pants off, and you resisted. You’ve got your hands around his wrists, thick, strong wrists connected to clawed hands, and oh, you are so  _ fucked,  _ but it’s already gone too far for you to turn back.

 

“I’m getting a little tired of you treating me like I’m some sort of object, you know.” Stay calm, don’t let him hear the tremor in your voice, try not to look down and see the shotguns strapped to his thighs or think about the way his thighs themselves could count as lethal weapons. “You get  _ everything _ from me and I don’t even get to see your fucking face. You know how it looks when I’m with family and I’ve gotta explain why there are bruises on the back of my neck? And I don’t even get to come.”

 

He’s quiet, but it’s impossible to tell whether it’s a “shameful consideration of my crimes” silence or a “livid with rage” silence. You keep going.

 

“If we’re going to keep doing this,  _ this _ is going to have to change. You need to pay me a little more attention.” Your hands slide up his arms, up his shoulders, settle on the edges of his mask. He stiffens, full body tensing up, but you plow ahead regardless. “We’re going to start doing things my w-”

 

In retrospect, trying to get someone who was likely an international terror suspect to show you his face? Not your best idea. Reaper punches you twice, once square on the jaw and once straight in the gut, and you drop like a sack of potatoes, falling on your side. You taste blood as he kicks you onto your stomach and you feel something that may or may not be a rib cracking as he steps down between your shoulderblades, hard. You can’t breathe, and your own heartbeat drowns out every other word he says.

 

“You stupid  _ fucking… _ did you  _ think… _ not going to…  _ que te jodan, puta!”  _ He stomps on your back with every word and punctuates the sentence by grinding down and yep, there’s definitely something broken beneath his foot. White hot pain lances through you with every shallow breath you take, and when you cough and spit, yep, it’s bright red and thick. Another stomp, harder than all the ones previously and everything at the edge of your vision goes black, mercifully, before returning to color as he reaches down to grab your shirt, yanking you up so you’re eye to eye with him where he’s now crouched.

 

“You want to see my fucking face?” He hisses. There’s something  _ wrong _ with his voice. It might be the creeping unconsciousness or the dizziness from being punched or any other thing but you have a sinking suspicion it’s not. A deep breath- Reaper calms himself slightly, then raises his free hand to lift his mask. “Here it is.”

 

You start to laugh right about then. There are tears streaming down your face- when did you start crying?- and they just come faster and harder, and you’re sobbing and laughing hysterically as you stare at his face, what’s left of it. It’s a mess of scars, ugly white lines that carve him up, lancing into otherwise beautiful dark skin, but you expected something like that. It’s not the scars that are a problem.

 

The problem is his eyes, two horrific black orbs that follow your every move, flat and unblinking. The problem is the smoke that pours from his mouth, thick and black, spilling out with every breath. The problem is all the  _ teeth.  _ The horrific glasgow grin that stretches across his face, adorned with shiny, needle sharp teeth. The thick red tongue that darts out to trace over his ruined lips.

 

It’s hilarious to you, in some distant, bizarre, pre-death way that you’re about to die because you were horny. He’s going to bite your throat out and maybe fuck your corpse if he feels like it, and then leave your body here in your shitty little apartment and tomorrow or the next day a friend will come over and find you naked and exsanguinated and covered in semen.

 

“I was trying not to ruin you,” he says, and somehow through your tears and hysteria you register the resigned, bored tone to his voice. His mouth moves inhumanly when he talks, breathing smoke into your face. “It’s so hard to find new things to play with. But then you had to go and fuck it all up. I’d been holding myself back so well, too…” 

 

He sighs, like this is all just a big hassle for him, and drops your shirt collar. Your head smacks against the ground, and you lay there in a puddle of your own tears and blood, praying to whatever gods you can think of that he just goes away.

 

It doesn’t work. A sharp nail skims down your back, leaving a long bleeding line, slicing through the cloth of your shirt, pants, and underwear all in one smooth go. He kicks you on your side again, forcing you to roll over onto your back so he can get the torn fabric off of you, and his boot digs into your chest just below one of your broken rib as you stare at the ceiling. You hear a low chuckle, the clinking of his belt. Tears are springing to your eyes again, silent ones this time, and you can’t help but wonder how many others there were before you, pretty things that Reaper fucked and disposed of just like this.

 

You saw his face, and it was terrifying. You’re not expecting him to have something even worse ready for you, but then you feel something cold and vaguely slippery wriggling against your leg. The moment you feel it, you yelp and pull back, but you’re not fast enough, and  _ something _ grabs you by the ankle, wrenching your leg out to the side. Another one of those  _ things  _ goes for the other leg, spreading you wide enough that you can feel the burn in your thighs, and the thought goes through your head that you’re going to be sore tomorrow if you’re not dead.

 

Looking down, you see there are two smoky black tentacles holding you open.

 

Reaper kneels between your spread legs, smiling faintly like he’s watching an amusing movie rather than getting ready to rape you. Now that he’s closer, you can see that the tentacles, whatever the hell they are, they look more like thin wisps of smoke that are emanating from his skin. As you stare, wide eyed and horrified, he leans forwards, pinning both of your wrists above your head with a single hand. His other hand finds your face, forces you to look him in those flat, empty eyes.

 

“What’s wrong?” He hisses. “Aren’t I paying you enough  _ attention  _ now? Is this not what you wanted?” He sticks two fingers in your mouth, forcing you to suck on his claws. “Good boy.” 

 

Thankfully, he doesn’t prep you while still wearing those gloves. You guess he figures you wouldn’t be as tight or as enjoyable a fuck if you were bleeding from your ass. He rips the gauntlet off with his teeth, exposing a heavily scarred but mostly human looking hand, spits on it, and gets to work. The lube is minimal, but the level of minute control he displays while fingering you open, finding your prostate and stroking it  _ hard,  _ it’s everything you had wanted out of him while he had been fucking you on the regular. Too bad you couldn’t be less turned on, dick remaining steadfastly flaccid as he stretches you wide enough that he won’t have a problem getting in.

 

He notices eventually, eyes flicking down to your soft cock and back up to your face, raising an eyebrow.

 

“This not enough? You want more?” 

 

You shake your head as hard as you can. “Please don’t do this, holy shit, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry,” you babble. “I didn’t mean for this, I just wanted- mmph!” Reaper cuts you off by sending out a third tentacle, thicker than the others, to shove itself down your throat. It goes deep, way too fucking deep, and you’ve sucked your fair share of dick in your lifetime, but this doesn’t compare. It’s too fucking  _ big,  _ and your eyes water again as you choke around it.

 

Above you, Reaper moans, rubbing his cock against your hole. “Mouthy little shit,” he murmurs, almost affectionately. “At least that mouth is actually good for something besides complaining.” Oh god. Can he feel it? The tentacle in your mouth thrusts once, twice, and he gives a small grunt of pleasure, effectively answering your question.

 

Between the choking and the panic rising in your gut, you almost don’t notice him pushing in. Probably wouldn’t have noticed at all if it weren’t for the fact that it feels like he deliberately makes it as uncomfortable as possible, grabbing your hip bruisingly hard and bottoming out in one sharp movement. It  _ burns,  _ and you scream around the tentacle in your mouth, a yowl of pain that Reaper drinks in like it’s a fine wine, letting loose a shuddery breath.

 

“Your throat is so fucking tight,” he says appreciatively. “Wish I had made you suck my dick more. So fucking,” he moans, starting to fuck you for real, setting his usual fast, merciless pace, “so fucking  _ good.” _

 

And you have to admit, it’s not entirely bad for you, either. Even after all the pain in the beginning, he actually seems to be making an effort now, hitting your prostate as often as he can, angling himself just right to make you gasp out a moan with every stroke.  _ Fuck _ him.

 

Another tentacle winds its way from out of his sleeve, slithers up your chest, and wraps around your throat, squeezing. You thrash around in a panic as what’s left of your air supply gets completely cut off, but he’s still holding you firmly in place, smirking at you while he watches you fucking die on his dick. You can’t breathe, and everything is too  _ hard.  _ Every snap of his hips echoes in your head, feeling like your brain’s about to explode out of your ears. Your vision is cloudy, between the edge of unconsciousness and the burst blood vessels in your eyes, and this is how you die. Death by deepthroat. It’s a shame you won’t be around to read the obituary.

 

When he lets go, you could cry.

 

The tentacle in your mouth slides out and you let out a hacking cough, gasping for air. You’ve never wanted to die so badly. You’ve never been more upset at someone for saving your life.

 

You’re even more upset when you catch him looking downwards, raising an eyebrow meaningfully. You follow his gaze, and see that to your horror, your dick is definitely perking up.

 

“Happened while I was choking you,” he says, conversationally. As if he’s talking about the fucking weather. “It’s a shame, really. We could’ve had so much  _ fun _ together.”

 

“Fuck… you,” you grit out, voice hoarse. 

 

Reaper’s face splits in a monstrous smile. He leans forwards, licking a line across your mouth that you recoil full body from. Sensing your discomfort, he does the exact opposite of what a normal, sane person with regard for their partner would do and kisses you, sucking hard on your tongue. He’s not a bad kisser, but that doesn’t make the experience any less horrifying. You freeze up, and hope you don’t cut yourself on his teeth.

 

The good thing about this whole clusterfuck is that he doesn’t seem to really care if the majority of your responses stem from abject horror. In fact, it seems to turn him on more, if his low growls and harder thrusts whenever you try to pull away or plead  _ no, please  _ are anything to go by. You squirm, cry, he bites your shoulder hard enough to bleed, an oval-shaped pattern of puncture marks. He’s got his free hand on your dick now, pumping hard, and despite everything, you’re still not soft.

 

Fuck him for all those times before. You knew he was deliberately being bad, and this is the proof. It’s too bad you couldn’t have found that out through any sort of safe, consensual means.

 

It’s the final stretch now. It’s far easier to tell when he’s about to come when he’s not wearing the mask- he’s got this scary intense look in his eyes, his brow is screwed up, and he’s giving these little gasps, smoke puffing out of his mouth with each one. It would be amusing under any other circumstance. You’re close too, to your complete, abject horror, body tightening and clenching under him as he jerks you off in time with the movement of his hips.

 

“I’m-” you gasp, not knowing why you bother. “I’m- I’m gonna-”

 

He nods knowingly, and before you can blink, the tentacle is back around your throat, squeezing hard enough that your vision starts to blur. That tremendous pressure builds again, but this time it’s not just in your head, and you’re just right on the edge of choking to death for the second time that night when it happens.

 

You’ve never actually had an orgasm without breathing before. It’s weird. Feels kind of floaty, like you’re somewhat disconnected from it, but also like it’s happening in slow-motion. It hurts a lot- everything feels  _ more  _ when you’re almost dead, you guess. It’s possibly the single best orgasm of your life.

 

The last gasp of air in your lungs leaves you in the form of a scream, as you actually do pass out.

 

-

 

When you wake up, your first thought is  _ holy shit, I’m sore,  _ closely followed by  _ holy shit, I’m not dead. _ It’s a kind of crappy consolation prize when you try to struggle to your feet only to give up when you realize that  _ everything  _ hurts. Your leg, your ass, your arms- it hurts to breathe. Even if Reaper hadn’t beaten the absolute shit out of you, lying on the floor for probably 12 hours or more judging by the light creeping in from the windows did you no favors. You’re also sticky, which is gross, and terrified, which you suppose makes sense.

 

Eventually you give up on standing, and decide to just crawl to the bathroom, where your first order of business is to throw up into the toilet, mostly bile and blood. After that’s done, you pull yourself over to the shower, and clean up most of the cum that’s dried on your skin, as well as all the sweat and blood you can see.

 

After that, you drag yourself back to the living room, grab your phone, and call an ambulance.

 

The hospital stay is mostly a blur, honestly. They patch up your broken ribs, hook you up to a morphine drip. Relatives and friends come to visit you, all of them with near-identical sympathetic words and looks on their faces. A few people who might be lawyers or policemen stop by, ask you to give details about whoever assaulted you, and each time your hysterical laughter drives them away. Eventually, they send you home.

 

You limp back to your crappy apartment, and sit alone on your couch, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about how it could be worse.

 

“At least I’m not dead,” you say, as if telling an empty room will make you feel any less like you wish you were. “And… he’s not coming back. It could be worse. Things could  _ definitely _ be worse.”

 

You’ll come to realize that was the wrong thing to say.

 

Later that night, you limp to your bedroom, and realize that something’s wrong. It’s a mess, but it’s always like that- but the one exception this time is your bed. It’s neatly made, with fresh linens, and there’s a folded piece of paper sitting on the pillow. Like a mint in a hotel, except it makes your knees buckle in fear to look at. With shaking hands, you pick it up, unfold it.

 

_ Turns out you were more interesting than I thought you’d be. See you soon- R. _

  
Things could always,  _ always _ be worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how are reading my fanfic and actually playing overwatch alike? either way, it doesn't matter what you do; reaper's still gonna fuck you. have fun. don't try this at home.

As soon as you’re well enough, you move. Your new digs are a shitty little apartment in a seedy neighborhood that’s far away from everyone you call a friend, but you don’t care. It’s away from him, too.

 

You haven’t seen Reaper since he fucked you, fucked you up, and left you for dead, you haven’t heard anything from him since he left the note, and you’re desperately hoping that he has no way to follow you, or at the very least doesn’t want to put in the effort. It’s about all you can cling to at this point when you wake up shaking and sweating from nightmares about being half-dead, checking under your bed for monsters that you haven’t believed in since you were a little kid.

 

It works out for a while. You get a job at a tiny little restaurant down the street, taking out garbage and washing dishes. The pay is shit, but it keeps you busy, keeps your mind off of things. You make a new friend or two, people who aren’t scared away by your newfound fear of the dark and the way you constantly look over your shoulder. It’s not a glamorous life, per say, but even  _ living  _ right now is enough. The bruises fade, the broken bones heal, mostly, and the nightmares... they don't leave, but you cope.

 

It works out up until exactly the point where you come home and find Reaper sitting on your couch.

 

At first, you’re hung up on how  _ casual _ it is. He’s still in that black leather uniform and skull mask, and he’s reclining with his legs up, boots no doubt dirtying your furniture. He’s got one of the little trinkets you halfheartedly decorated your end table with in his hand, turning it over as he waits for you. It’s the last thing you’d expect from him, and your undignified burst of half-hysterical, half-genuinely amused laughter is what draws his attention.

 

“Hey,” he says. You promptly slam your door shut, and  _ run. _

 

_ How the fuck did he find me  _ is the second loudest thought in your mind right now, right behind  _ shit shit fuck I’m gonna die  _ as you rush down the stairs as fast as you can, leaping over them two at a time. Each breath sears your lungs as you’re painfully reminded that you’re not entirely better yet, but you’ll take pain and rehospitalization over being a humanoid abomination’s fucktoy and/or torture doll any day. You have no idea where to go that will be safe from him permanently, but it doesn’t matter. You have to get out.

 

Eschewing the lobby, you head for an alleyway that you usually use as a shortcut to get to work. You throw yourself full-body against the door and stagger out a few steps before collapsing to your knees, dizzy from pain and shortness of breath. As much as you’re terrified of resting, you’ve put several doors and at least 10 floors between yourself and Reaper, so a brief respite is probably fine.

 

When the sound of blood pounding in your head gets quiet, you hear someone clapping sarcastically. Horror slowly dawns on you as you look up, and see him standing not ten feet away from you.

 

“How- did you-” you cough, struggling to catch your breath. “- get here so fast?”

 

“Jumped from the fire escape. I knew where you would be going.” His voice is tinged with fey amusement. He takes a step forwards, and you scramble back on hands and knees. “I’ve been watching you ever since you left that hospital. You really thought you could get away from me that easily?”

 

He’s a monster. Even if you hadn’t seen his true face, you would have known. No one human could take that much delight in stalking you like you were some sort of exotic animal.

 

“Stay- stay away from me,” you say, backing up further, hauling yourself to shaky feet. It doesn’t come out like you wanted it to, but he doesn’t come any closer. You take a few more steps back, then turn tail, and run as fast as you can towards the end of the alleyway. It’s nighttime, but there still should be some people around,  _ someone  _ who can help you,  _ anyone. _

 

The click of his shotgun cuts through your consciousness like a knife. You hear it, and the world suddenly seems to slow down- you see the end of the alley, but it’s impossibly far away, and your legs are moving like jell-o. Reaper, on the other hand, moves monstrously fast. You don’t see him bring the gun up, but you feel it, a crackle in the air like electricity as you struggle against the inevitable. The sound of an explosion, impossibly loud. Something sharp cutting, ripping,  _ burning  _ through your side. Asphalt hitting your knees, chest, head as you fall to the ground, screaming.

 

Then the world promptly speeds up again, the rubber-banding back to the present making you nauseous. You look down at your side, and for a second you don’t understand why there are worms crawling over you until you realize that there’s a hole in your side about the size of your fist.

 

“You fucking s _ ssh-  _ ss _ ssshh. _ ” There’s blood  _ everywhere, _ seeping through your fingers as you try to- oh god- hold your guts inside of you, and you feel yourself break out into a cold sweat. Suddenly you’re tired, a bone deep exhaustion that numbs all the pain and makes your arms and legs feel tingly and fogs up your mind. “Ssss _ ssshh-”  _ you slur wildly, and the whole world loses focus for a second as you tip over onto your side and vomit.

 

Maybe this is how you die. Bled out in an alleyway where the rats will gnaw on you until someone notices the smell and finds your corpse. You vaguely realize that you’re going into shock as you’re fantasizing about your body having to be identified from your teeth, and even then, it’s a comforting feeling. If the blood loss doesn’t kill you, your heart will fail or your organs will shut down or you’ll just run out of oxygen. Either way, you’re dead. You hadn’t realized it in all the time you’d spent running from him, but dying… it’s not such a bad deal, after all. No more paranoia. No more nightmares. No more Reaper.

 

A lopsided grin slips across your face and you close your eyes, thinking about it. You don’t notice the hands under your legs or back, lifting you effortlessly. You don’t notice the way he moves faster than any person should be able to, slipping across town, inhuman and silent. By the time he drags you into the emergency room and hands you off to several terrified doctors who take one look at him and decide that asking questions is a good way to end up face down in a ditch, you’ve been outside the realm of consciousness for a long time.

 

-

 

You wake up to the feeling of being high on just enough medication to reduce your pain to a dull ache, the faint beeping noise of an EKG (probably yours), and a coldness emanating from the side of your bed. Turning your head to the side as best you can causes a familiar all-black silhouette to swim into focus, and you sigh. It’s about all you can muster at the moment, pathetic and defeated. With morphine coursing through you, you don’t have the energy to fight, run, or even yell at him. There are a million questions that surface, one after another, but most of them you either don’t want to think about, or don’t want to actually know the answer to.

 

“Why?” is what you settle with, muffled through the oxygen mask you didn’t realize was strapped through your face and the fact that your tongue feels like shag carpet. 

 

Reaper reclines by a degree, and through the mask you can feel his gaze settle on you. There’s an emotion in his stare, and you struggle for a moment before you can put a finger on it. It’s not concern for your wellbeing, or remorse over fucking  _ shooting you,  _ he’s- and the thought fills you with a cold dread- feeling  _ playful. _

 

“If I’d wanted you dead, you would  _ be  _ dead,” he says, voice curling over the syllables in a way that’s sickeningly self-satisfied. “I don’t want you dead, yet. So you’re not.”

 

Despite everything, you choke out a hoarse laugh, letting your eyes slip shut. “Awesome,” you wheeze. “Just. Fuckin’ awesome.” A toy that he wanted to play with a bit longer before he broke it. You have no illusions that he actually  _ cares  _ about you beyond what your body can do for him and the fact that it amuses him to hurt you. Like an ant under a magnifying glass.

 

You don’t even react at first when he lays a hand on your leg, a little too high to be just meant as comforting. The cold emanating from his gloves is apparent through the thin cloth of the hospital bedsheets. When he starts stroking up and down your thigh, you make an effort to push him off, flopping back and forth and only stopping when his iron grip wraps around your leg and pulls it to the side. You look over at him, begging as much as you can with your eyes.

 

“Please,” you get out. “Don’t- I can’t-”

 

“There are two ways this can go,” Reaper interrupts you. “The first is, you let me do whatever the fuck I want with you, and maybe I’ll make it good for you too. The second is, I rip  _ that _ out-” he gestures to your IV, the twin bags of saline and pain meds that are both doing their part to make you feel slightly less like shit, “wait a few minutes, and  _ then _ I do whatever the fuck I want with you. Which would you prefer?”

 

Fuck him. You relax as much as you can be reasonably expected to in this situation, and he resumes his touching, getting up out of his seat so he can run his hands over more of your body. Your blanket is yanked down, and he shreds your gown with his claws, leaving you bare.

 

As much as it stings to just lie back and let him put you through all this shit again, you can’t muster the effort to care nearly as much as you should. It could be worse. He’s leaving his mask on, and the face that haunts you whenever you close your eyes for too long is staying out of this. The worst thing that could happen would be a nurse walking in on this, and even then, Reaper would probably snap their neck and keep going. 

 

As ever, your assessment of worst-case scenarios shows an appalling lack of imagination.

 

He goes for the bandage on your side. He peels off the medical tape holding the gauze in place, and you watch, panic rising, as he looks over the inelegant, ropy stitches that are holding you shut.

 

Caressing the thread with a nail, he comments, “it’s going to leave a hell of a scar.” The tone of his voice hasn’t changed one iota, playful and conversational as he rips through one stitch at a time. It doesn’t hurt, but there’s a dull pulling sensation as your skin reopens, and you can- oh  _ god. _

 

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of your own intestines, neatly coiled up inside of you. Tears slip out from under your lids, stinging your eyes.

 

“Look at me.” He cuffs you on the temple, not particularly hard, but with enough force to let you know that he’s not fucking around. Your eyes flutter back open just in time to see him unzipping his pants and pulling his cock out. He’s already completely hard and leaking, and you might have made fun of him if it wasn’t apparently obvious that he is literally getting off on your pain. “Wish you could see the look on your face right now. It’s fucking  _ gorgeous.”  _

 

He rips a glove off with his teeth, tossing it to the side, and unceremoniously sticks two fingers right in your gunshot wound. You don’t feel anything besides an uncomfortable push, but looking at it makes your want to vomit. There’s not enough in your stomach to accomplish that, so you start hyperventilating instead, entire body tensing up as you struggle simultaneously with trying to get him  _ out,  _ and trying to tamp down on your urge to fight him tooth and nail. There’s no doubt in your mind as to what he’s about to do. The sick bastard.

 

After a moment of prodding around in you and feeling out your reactions, he hoists himself up onto the hospital bed, those ridiculous metal kneepads clanging down, caging in your hips. The mask looms over you.

 

“Can’t-” you gulp, hoping you don’t sound as terrified as you feel. “Can’t we just fuck like normal people?”

 

He laughs, rubs the head of his dick around the rim of the hole in you. “You wouldn’t like that.” With a soft groan, he starts to push in. It’s a bizarre sensation- you realize it should be painful, but it’s not. The sensation of having something sliding between your guts that shouldn’t be there is all sorts of  _ badwrong,  _ but not painful. Even when he bottoms out, pressed against you in a parody of intimacy, it doesn’t hurt.

 

“I might, if you would just t-try-  _ oh.”  _ As fucked up as he is, you’d be lying to yourself if you couldn’t admit that you weren’t fucked up as well. You didn’t even know you were hard until he takes you in the hand that’s still gloved and starts stroking, hard to the point of punishing, and you can  _ definitely  _ feel  _ that.  _

 

“You wouldn’t like that,” Reaper repeats, smugly. He’s moving now, thrusting slow and deep inside you, and you can see that you’re bleeding again, skin covered in slick red that spreads every time he presses his hips against you. “Fucking like normal people is boring. You think doing it face to face, lights out, candles everywhere- you think that’s going to get you off half as well as this?  _ Mierda.” _ He’s breathing heavy already, but so are you, and he notices, the bastard. For better or worse, this isn’t going to last long. Every breath you take, every contraction of the muscles of your stomach makes him hiss in pleasure. “You  _ need _ me. Who else is going to give you what you won’t admit you want?”

 

He fucking thinks he’s got your number, that he knows you so goddamn well. It’s infuriating, condescending- but as he jerks you off and you respond to every touch with a keening gasp, curling your fingers in the crappy sheets underneath you, you get the awful feeling that he might be  _ right.  _ A particularly hard thrust makes the iron smell of blood to fill your nose and you whimper, lifting a hand to clutch the leather of his jacket sleeve.

 

“I tried to fuck you like a normal person. You said it wasn’t enough.” He leans in closer, murmuring into your ear. His breath is cold against your skin, coming out in a rush when you squirm underneath him, and he groans. “Is  _ this _ enough?” 

 

You hate him. You hate him so much. It’s hard to concentrate on any one individual physical sensation, so you focus in on blinding, seething rage _.  _ He’s fucking you at a pace that’s just barely restrained enough to not rip you apart, and the squelching sound his cock makes as it shoves itself into the gaps between your internal organs is nauseating, but you couldn’t get soft now even if you tried.

 

“Please,” you gasp, and he simultaneously digs his nails into your side and does  _ something  _ with his fingers that has your back arching, coming weakly over his hand. The world goes blissfully white, and you hang on to the sensation, trying to forget that he’s there. It feels like you’re floating for the brief moment before reality crashes back down, and you remember where you are, and who’s next to you.

 

Reaper comes shortly afterwards, pulling out and leaving stripes of white all over the bloody mess he’s made of your side. As disgusting as it is, you consider the fact that there’s a minimal amount of semen in your abdomen to be a blessing.

 

The fact that he leaves quickly is a blessing too. He wipes away the tear tracks running down your cheeks, murmurs a foreboding “see you soon” that you’d rather not think about at the moment, and turns into a freaky looking cloud of black smoke that dissolves through the wall of your room and disappears. You aren’t going to question it. Coming down from orgasm, your body feels impossibly heavy, still bleeding sluggishly from the wound in your side. You’re more tired than you’ve ever been in your life, and you want nothing more than to either be left alone for the next 48 hours, or to die, or both.

  
Reaching for the clicker that controls your drugs, you start thinking of ways you can explain to the nurses why your stitches are out and you’re covered in blood and cum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinkshame me on tumblr @rhysgore


	3. Chapter 3

After your second prolonged hospital stay in three months, you don’t even try to run. Moving last time was a time-consuming, expensive ordeal that involved you uprooting your entire life in a desperate attempt to escape something which, as it turned out, followed you anyway. Although you’re making do, you can’t spend the money or energy to try to get a better place, and even if you could, it wouldn’t stop him. You could move to fucking Alcatraz, and he’d probably find you and fuck you up against the door of whatever cell you made your home. Probably get off on it, too.

 

It’s fine. It’s all fine. You stay, and your wounds heal as much as they’re going to, the one on your side leaving an absolutely  _ nasty _ scar. A friend sees it at one point when you stretch and your shirt rides up, and comments, with no small degree of concern, that it looks like you got mauled by a wild animal. She’s so close to the truth that you almost laugh.

 

One day, he brings someone to your house.

 

The knock on the door startles you, as most sudden noises do nowadays, but when your heart stops jackhammering in your chest, you scramble to open it. If it’s Reaper, and you’re always, always living with the possibility that it is, you’d rather not have to deal with him kicking down the door after he decides he’s waited too long.

 

When the door swings open, it’s him, but this time, he’s not alone. There’s a woman standing next to him, actually more like bodily leaned against him, an arm draped around his shoulders.

 

You notice two things almost immediately. First, that she’s beautiful. She looks like royalty. Her face is cut in sharp lines, except for her mouth, which is smooth and firm. Her jet-black hair is pulled up away from her face, held from her forehead by some sort of strange metal headband, spilling around her well-defined shoulders like ink. She’s absolutely gorgeous. That’s the first thing. The second is that every bit of exposed skin you can see is a deathly shade of blue.

 

You have approximately two seconds to comprehend that Reaper has apparently brought some sort of alien queen to your doorstep before he’s pushing his way inside, shoving past you and pulling the woman, who’s having some difficulty moving, in after him.

 

“Um,” you say. Reaper ignores you, brushing a broad arm over your coffee table, scattering everything on it to the floor. Two dirty glasses you had been meaning to wash shatter against the ground, and you wince, before your emotions rapidly change to angry confusion. “What the hell is-”

 

“Shut. Up,” he says. You do. Right now, everything about him is screaming “don’t fuck with me”. Biting your tongue, you step as close as you dare. Reaper lays the woman down on your table, carefully. You’ve never seen him be so gentle with… well, with anything. The gesture looks like it belongs on someone else entirely, and you feel a pang of emotion in you that you can’t quite identify. 

 

The woman herself looks almost bored, staring at your ceiling, and occasionally at you. Her gaze is simultaneously terrifyingly intense, and completely aloof, and you can’t shake the feeling that she might eat you. You flinch every time your eyes meet. The only thing that prevents you from turning tail and fleeing, leaving them both to whatever the hell they’re doing, is the set of her jaw. It’s barely noticeable, and you probably wouldn’t have recognized it if you hadn’t seen the same look on your own face in the mirror far too many times. Just a little too tight to be natural. She’s hurt.

 

Your theory is confirmed when you hear the sound of something ripping, and turn to see Reaper tearing through the already torn up fabric covering her stomach, and  _ holy shit. _ It looks like someone punched a hole right through her. The wound is a perfect circle, almost, but it’s  _ huge, _ leaking blood sluggishly How she’s even conscious is beyond you.

 

_ She’s stronger than you, that’s how,  _ you think, swallowing hard.

 

The woman, breathing in and out steadily, speaks. She’s got a thick accent, French, and her voice is as steady as anyone’s as she says, perfectly calmly, “it is in my liver. Just under my ribs. Close to my lung. Too close. If you do not remove it, there is danger of puncture.”

 

Holy  _ shit. _

 

Reaper swears quietly in Spanish, then turns to you.

 

“You have a lighter? Sewing kit? Pliers?” He barks out, and you want to ask him  _ what the hell is going on,  _ but you get the distinct feeling that if his friend? Colleague? His- the word comes with a degree of difficulty-  _ girlfriend? _ Whatever she is, if she dies in your apartment, on your table, you aren’t living to see tomorrow either. “Hey. Fucking focus.”

 

“Y-yeah,” you stutter.

 

“Get them. Hurry the fuck up.” You scramble from your position stock still and gaping at the proceedings, scurrying to your closet for your toolbox. You nearly drop it  when you find it because of how badly your hands are shaking, but you pull through, opening it and rifling through the contents until you find a needle and thread, and pliers with plastic yellow handles. The lighter you grab from your bedside table.

 

When you get back into the living room, Reaper has a bottle of absinthe in his hands, neck broken off. He holds his hand out to you.

 

“Pliers.” You hand them over, watch as he pours the alcohol over the metal. “Give me your shirt.”

 

“Wh-” The second of delay was apparently too much for him, and he reaches out and rips a chunk of fabric off of the bottom of it, rubbing the pliers dry with it. “Hey!”

 

He ignores you, crouching down next to the table. With a delicateness you would never have thought was possible, he dips the pliers into the woman’s wound. She doesn’t react, except to go completely still. It doesn’t look like she’s breathing.

 

Complete silence falls over the three of you as Reaper works. You’re on the verge of jumping of your skin when he speaks again.

 

“Found it. Hold still.” The woman arches an eyebrow, the first legitimate expression you’ve seen from her.  _ Really? _ She does close her eyes, though, clenching her teeth as Reaper  _ pulls,  _ a familiar squelching sound accompanying the action. The movement is deft, precise, and you have to look away to avoid throwing up. You don’t look back until you hear the clink of metal on wood- the bullet Reaper pulled out is bloody, and almost comically long. He holds his hand out to you again. “Lighter.”

 

The woman rolls her eyes, scoffs. “You know this is not necessary, yes? I cannot bleed out.”

 

“It was in your liver. You shouldn’t take chances. Especially since if  _ you _ die, they’re going to take it out on  _ me.” _ He flicks the lighter once, twice, and a flame sputters to life in it. It’s weak, but he doesn’t seem to care, holding the claws of of one of his gloves into it just enough that the leather doesn’t catch on fire. “Be responsible, for once in your life.”

 

The woman scoffs again, but doesn’t object to him pressing his fingers into her wound. She barely reacts at all, even when there’s a hissing, cracking noise, and the smell of burning meat fills the room. You, on the other hand, choke down bile. How anyone can withstand  _ any _ of this is beyond you, but she seems completely fine. Now that she’s not in danger of dying, she seems almost irritated that Reaper is wasting her time.

 

Reaper, for his part, is far less scary than he was ten minutes ago. The tension in his shoulders has lessened, and he looks almost relaxed as he sews up the wound with precise, deft movements.

 

Now that you don’t feel like you’re going to fuck up and die, you realize the entire foundation of what you know about the man in front of you has been shaken by the fact that apparently, there’s someone whose life he values. Who  _ is  _ this woman?

 

Your throat hurts, all of the sudden.

 

When her stitches are all in, she sits up, rolling her shoulders, and you see cords of muscle rippling underneath her blue skin. She smiles at you feyly, and it’s awful- it doesn’t reach her eyes. You get the distinct feeling that she wants to wring your neck, and unlike Reaper, there’s nothing valuable you provide her with to prevent her from doing so. You shiver under her gaze, and Reaper laughs.

 

“He’s  _ scared _ of you, Widow,” he says, standing up.

 

“As he should be,” she replies, smirking like they’re sharing an inside joke. “Oh, you’re leaving?  _ Non, _ you shouldn’t- he may be nothing but bones when you get back.”

 

You’re pants-pissingly terrified of this woman (Widow? Is that her name? It’s kind of weird, but then again, she is hanging out with someone named  _ Reaper _ ), but Reaper just laughs again, body dissolving into smoke that seeps out a crack in your window, leaving you alone with her. The irony of it is almost hilarious. You never dreamed there would be a situation where you were more afraid of him being  _ away. _

 

… She’s still staring at you.

 

With an awkward cough, you try for small talk. “You two, uh… know each other, then?” You ask, instantly hating every word that comes out of your mouth. Of  _ course  _ they know each other.

 

“He told me about you,” she says.  _ “L'homme qui ne voulait pas mourir.  _ You do not look at all how I pictured you.” Her expression is disdainful, pitying, but there’s something else in it, too. “I am impressed.”

 

“Huh?” You can’t do anything but stare at her dumbly, like she’s speaking a different language. Which you suppose is at least a little correct.

 

“I have known Reaper for a number of years. He is, ah-” she pauses, thinking through her metaphor. “He is rough with his toys. People rarely survive for long under his attention.” A wry twist of her upper lip that makes you flinch away. “You have lasted the longest out of any of them. And after  _ seeing  _ him, too. It is no small feat, especially for someone like yourself.” The look, again, like you’re an insect.

 

That’s- wow. Backhanded compliment aside, it’s not reassuring to know that the average life expectancy for one of Reaper’s fucktoys is apparently under three months. You gulp.

 

“O-oh.”

 

You process the information for a minute as Widow stretches, massaging stiff muscles back to life. She looks like she could run a marathon at that exact moment, if she had to. She looks way too healthy for someone who was just shot in the stomach. The pain you felt earlier in your throat returns in force, and you gulp again, trying to suppress it. She looks  _ good. _

 

“Areyouhisgirlfriend?” You blurt out, nearly shouting the question at her. When she raises a sharp eyebrow, you immediately backtrack. “Oh fuck, I’m sorry, I- I just-”

 

There’s a high, clear sound coming from her, and it takes you a moment to realize she’s laughing. Legitimately laughing, instead of cackling evilly like you would have expected. It still sounds patronizing, somehow, but at least it’s a sign that she’s probably not about to murder you.

 

“Oh, I think I understand now,” she says, when her laughter dies away. “If I were him, I would not have been able to resist either.  _ Non,  _ I am not. He and I have... opposing proclivities, you see. We are colleagues. That is all.”

 

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “I just thought- he doesn’t seem to give a shit. About anyone.”

 

She smiles, wide and cruel.

  
“He doesn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a breather chapter, because i wrote 2k words and realized that my goreporn fic was lacking both gore and porn so im dividing this one into two parts
> 
> ive started school again, so from now on any updates will be contingent on my schedule as well as whether or not im a lazy sack of shit
> 
> also, i would highly recommend NOT performing the medical procedures detailed here. do not remove a bullet from a person unless keeping it in presents a bigger danger than bleeding to death. the only reason wm wouldn't exsanguinate in this situation is lower heartrate = lower blood pressure = bleeding slower... honestly not sure if its slow enough for her to not die here but whatever, if blizzard can pseudobio the shit out of their game so can i


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tag cloud grows ever larger

After the woman pulls out an absolutely  _ wicked _ looking rifle and starts the meticulous process of taking it apart and cleaning it, you give up on any attempt at small talk, deciding instead that what you absolutely need right now is a drink. It’s probably not a good idea to impair your judgement while a pair of what you can only guess are professional murderers are occupying your house, but fuck it. Your nerves are already frayed, and you can only take so much more before they snap. You’ve earned it.

 

Since Reaper wasted all of your strong stuff cleaning the equipment for DIY surgery, you settle for a beer, rifling through the few groceries you have in your fridge to find it. Popping the tab, you lean against your kitchen counter and stare at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly 11, you notice offhandedly as you try not to scream.

 

“What the fuck,” you say instead.

 

When did this become your life? When did associating with hitmen and criminals and godawful monstrosities become  _ familiar?  _ You wish you could return to the time where all you were was a warm hole, forgettable at best and replaceable at worst. Maybe if you’d kept your damn mouth shut, he would have eventually grown bored and moved on to someone more interesting. Maybe he would have killed you to keep you quiet, quickly and painlessly, and you would have never gotten involved in any of this. It’s too late now, though. Even if he does kill you- and you have a sinking suspicion your life isn’t going to end naturally, a voice that cheerfully reminds you every morning when you wake up that you’re not going to get any semblance of a normal existence- you’re beyond the point where he’d do anything but draw it out for his own amusement. Sick bastard.

 

Before you know it, the can is empty. You toss it into a nearby bin and pull out another one. Might as well check on your guests.

 

When you get back to the living room, Reaper has returned. He’s sitting on your couch, and he and the woman are talking in low voices about something that you only grab a word or two of, not nearly enough to parse what’s going on. That’s probably for the best, actually. The less you know about whatever the hell they do, the better. You clear your throat, and they both look up.

 

“You, uh- want anything to drink?” You ask. Reaper stands, and you notice for the first time that his clothes and mask are tacky with blood. And he was just sitting on the one nice piece of furniture you own, too. Your nose wrinkles. Gross.

 

He doesn’t actually answer your question. Instead, he walks off down the hallway in the opposite direction, towards your bedroom. You glance from his retreating figure, to hers, sprawled out over the one other chair you have. She seems mildly irritated about something, or bored, or both, picking up a magazine from the floor and flicking through it with an air of disinterest. It’s some sort of shopping catalogue or whatever, junk that you’d get no matter where you’d live. Whatever’s going on, you decide to leave her alone, and instead stalk off down the hallway after Reaper. It’s time to get some answers.

 

He’s waiting for you in your bedroom, facing towards the far wall, touching your personal possessions and generally invading your privacy, and you nearly slam the door behind you when you enter. He barely reacts. Of course.

 

“What the hell is going on?!” You demand, anger bursting forth all of the sudden from where it had been simmering dormant inside of you. “Who the fuck is she?! What’s she doing here?! What happened?! Why are you-”

 

Your voice trails off abruptly as he turns to face you. If you’d taken a second longer to look around your room before you’d confronted him, maybe you would have noticed his mask lying on your bed. His teeth are stretched in a rictus grin across the sides of his face, eyes- oh great, there are three of them on the left side, now, all crammed in there- shining flatly as his gaze bores into you. Whatever you were about to say trails off into a squeak that you’d be embarrassed about if you were paying any attention to anything but the way he’s looking at you.

 

“Widowmaker told me something interesting,” he says, stepping closer to you. You instinctively take a step back. You didn’t notice it last time, but there’s skin over his extra teeth. Only a little though, ropy strands where his cheeks should have been, where it looks like instead the flesh has been torn or melted to allow his mouth to exist.

 

“Is that her name? Kind of on the nose, isn’t it?” Stall him. Move back. Look for something heavy and blunt, or something sharp. Your legs are trembling again because you  _ know  _ what he wants. He couldn’t hide it from anyone, looking like he does now. And if past experiences have taught you anything, he  _ gets  _ what he wants.

 

Reaper nods. “Mmhmm.” He’s getting closer, trying to crowd you against the wall, and you’re growing desperate. You look towards the window, and notice a vase there, made of nice porcelain, a single dead flower in it that you’ve been meaning to throw away but haven’t. There. “She told me you were  _ jealous.” _

 

Slide along the wall, get as close as you can before he cuts you off. Distract. Delay. “What? No. Nooo, I just wanted to know if you were, you know. Involved. She might be the jealous type for all I know. I don’t know much. But I’m not  _ jealous.  _ What would I be jealous of? That’s ridiculous.” You laugh nervously, aware that you’re babbling, but unable to stop it. Almost there.

 

“Would you have minded if we were ‘involved’? Does it make you upset to think that I might be fucking someone else?” His face is right in front of yours, so close you can feel him breathing, and it’s inexplicably  _ weird  _ that he breathes. It makes your skin prickle with discomfort, chills running down your spine. His mouth rumbles and stretches when he speaks, that thick tongue dancing delicately against his abnormal amount of teeth.

 

“That’s an interesting theory,” you say, and leap to the side.

 

He must be surprised that you’d still have the guts to try something, after all the shit he’s put you through for resisting. That’s why he doesn’t react when you scramble over to the window and grab the vase, sending dirty water and dead flowers to the ground. Your body is screaming at you to go, go,  _ go,  _ and you wind back, swinging it at him in what you hope is a devastating backhand. Even then, he doesn’t move. He stands there, and it hits him square across the face, shattering on impact.

 

You press the advantage, jumping on him and tackling him to the ground, punching him in the face over and over. Your hands are bleeding, cut up from the bits of porcelain embedded in them, the bits in his face that you drive deeper with every swing, but you don’t care because you can feel bones and teeth alike breaking under your hands. A swing, and what would be an eye socket on a normal person crunches. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve heard in months.

 

_ “Jealous?!” _ You hear yourself roar. “I’ll- show- you- jealous- you- sadistic- piece- of-  _ shit!”  _ Every word is punctuated by a hit, and god, this is good, this is so  _ good,  _ no wonder he loves it so much, it feels  _ euphoric  _ to absolutely lay into him. He’s bleeding, you think, black liquid oozing out of torn skin. So he bleeds too. “Fuck!  _ You!” _

 

Eventually, you get the idea to grab the sides of his head, and push your thumbs right into his eyes. It feels like firm jell-o, squishy and gelatinous under your hands, and it’s absolutely disgusting, but you don’t  _ care,  _ don’t care about anything but fucking him up. That part is awesome. You’re laughing hysterically, thumbs wiggling around in ruined sockets, and you feel  _ alive. _ At this point you’re basically fingerpainting with the ruins of his face.

 

Something hard hits your cheek, and in your trance of awesome endorphins and awesome badassery, it takes you a moment to realize it’s a chunk of tooth, surrounded by a glob of saliva. That’s when you realize Reaper hasn’t been resisting you. At all.

 

“Seriously?” He asks, voice laced with bored amusement. The two eyes that you haven’t fucked up flick to your face, and you could cry. Your body goes limp, and you stare at him open-mouthed as his injuries start to fix themselves, dark smoke feeding into the cuts and knitting them up, teeth growing back into place. His eyes repair layer by layer, starting with the nerves and working their way back up to the irises. 

 

Tears well up in your eyes, equal parts frustration and fear. Hands trembling as you brace them against his chest, still covered in blood and the gel-like remains of his eyeballs, you start to sob. Of course it wouldn’t last, of course he can stitch himself back together. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. Whatever type of monster he is, you’re stuck with him. It stings worse than anything he’s done to you, knowing that you can’t do anything back. Nothing permanent, at least. You pound your fists against him and  _ scream,  _ a savage, animalistic roar of frustration and fear, and he fucking lays there and  _ watches. _

 

The near instantaneous ripple of his muscles that pushes you off him and sends you sprawling to the floor isn’t surprising, nor is the way he flips you onto your stomach, slotting his hips against your ass and grinding slow and dirty, making sure you can feel how hard he is. Your shirt, already torn, is literally shredded, your pants and underwear pulled roughly down to you knees, and he repeats the motion, rubbing himself against you almost lazily. You feel something wet against your face, and realize after it starts lapping up your tears that it’s his tongue.

 

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret,” he murmurs against your ear. There’s something cold and slippery winding up each of your legs, two smoky tentacles, holding you open so that his hands are free to pin your arms back and card through your hair, a gesture which would have been comforting if it were anyone but him doing anything but this. “I’m sure Widowmaker told you about my hobbies.”

 

That he’s killed everyone else he’s fucked. Right.

 

“I like it when you struggle,” he admits. It’s not so much a confession as it is just stating the obvious. “Everyone else… stopped struggling, after a while. They would just lay there. I had to resort to some sick shit to get them to react at all.”

 

“Must’ve been horrible, if you think it was sick,” you mutter. Reaper laughs, as much of a confirmation of you need.

 

“But you… you haven’t stopped struggling. Not for a moment.”

 

_ Not yet,  _ he doesn’t say, and it dawns on you with awful clarity exactly what he means. He’s being charitable, in his own fucked up, murderous way. He’s offering you a way out. Don’t fight me, and it can all be over. Give up, and I’ll end it for you. It won’t be a pretty way out, won’t be fast or painless, but it’s a way out nonetheless.

 

It makes you feel nauseous. As much as you despise this, you can’t stand the idea of letting him kill you and move on to someone else as if your life and your struggling mean nothing. As if all the  _ bullshit  _ he’s put you through means nothing. No, you’re not going to go quietly. You won’t let him have the satisfaction of knowing he bested you one last time. You won’t let him fucking  _ win. _

 

“I hate you,” you spit out. The hand in your hair stops moving. “I hate you so fucking much. All I fucking want is to kill you.” He groans behind you, and you hear him reaching for something, but you can’t stop now. “If I ever hurt you badly enough that you can’t heal it, I’ll be able to die happy.”

 

“And what would you do without me?”

 

“God, I haven’t quite decided on celebration plans yet, but let me get back to you later.” There’s another tentacle snaking its way around your stomach. It’s not squeezing, but the thickness of it is keeping you basically immobile. The only part of your body that’s still free to move is your head, and even then you can barely turn it. “There’ll be champagne, probably. I like champagne.”

 

He chuckles, and you feel something hard and cold skim down your upper back, tracing the blade of your shoulder. It’s a featherlight touch, but you tense up immediately.

 

“You think you’d be happy,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your upper back that’s more teeth than anything else. “Maybe you would, for a while. But give it a week- two weeks- a month- a year- however long it takes for you to realize you’re not satisfied because no one else compares to me.”

 

Honestly, you’re not sure what about that makes you laugh, but you do laugh, snorting loud and ugly. Your face is still wet with tears, but you laugh and  _ laugh,  _ thumping your forehead against the carpet.

 

“You’re fucking delusional. There’s plenty fuckheads out there who’d be perfectly happy to beat and rape me. I don’t need you.”

 

Fingers caress your neck, the calloused tips of them surprisingly gentle. When sharp nails dig into the loose skin there and he yanks your head up by the scruff of your neck, it’s almost a relief, and you hate it. You hate the fact that being hurt by him is your  _ normal. _

 

The pressure of that same hard, cold  _ thing  _ against your shoulder, and this time you feel the sharp edge of it digging into your skin, and you realize what it is. One of the pieces of broken porcelain from the smashed vase.

 

“You do. You just don’t know it yet.” 

 

His voice stays low and deathly calm as he makes the first cut into you, slicing down through the flesh of your back, and you cry out in pain, struggling against the hands and tentacles and the force of his body, all holding you still. It hurts, it hurts, all the more because you  _ know  _ he could have used a knife, or his hands, something sharper and more precise and the cut would have been clean, but he didn’t. He wanted you to feel him taking you apart again.

 

It occurs to you, between the flashes of white-hot burning, that this is the most intimate he’s ever been with you. It’s not a random act of violence, not a quick fuck. He’s pressed against your entire body, every motion slow and drawn out and deliberate. This is what passes for intimacy between you and Reaper, him brushing away your tears with the pad of his thumb as he rips in. It’s his fucked up, disgusting version of foreplay.

 

“Why are you crying? All I’m doing is making sure you won’t be able to touch anyone else without thinking of me.” His voice is a sadistic whisper in your ear, a mockery of something soothing, and you hate him even more for trying to make you think this is anything other than torture for his amusement. The shiv curves in a jagged semi-circle between your shoulder that you know is going to heal choppily at best. “Where’s that fighting spirit, huh? We’re nearly done. Don’t go soft on me now.”

 

Something cold and wet nudges its way between your legs, feeling you out with soft, delicate touches that make you want to vomit more than any of the pain. It slides into you, an insistent pressure, like the probing of a finger, slick with an unidentifiable gooey substance. You’re praying it’s lube, but life is rarely that kind to you.

 

The cold in your ass is offset by the all-too familiar warm drip of blood on your back. The way you’re bent over makes it flow over your shoulders, up your neck, dripping off your chin into your carpet. 

 

A second tentacle enters you, and then a third, and somehow your blood loss isn’t enough for you to start to get hard from- from everything, you realize. The pain. The overwhelming iron scent. The feeling of being stretched out while Reaper presses up against you, a heavy, insistent, and disgustingly  _ familiar  _ weight.

 

This is wrong. This isn’t something you should be getting off on. This is- you whimper as his hand, rough, calloused, and slick with your blood, grips your cock, squeezing hard. This is your fucked up equivalent of a fight-or-flight response. You can’t run, you can’t do anything to defend yourself against the danger except roll over, give it what it wants, and hope that whatever’s hurting you feels merciful today.

 

Knowing this doesn’t make it feel any less good when he jerks you off, hard and fast. Doesn’t make you hate yourself any less when one of the tentacles squirming around inside of you rubs just right, making you moan, face mashed into the carpet. His other hand has moved to your hip, not even bothering to pin your limp, useless arms down anymore. It’s not like you could do anything productive with them even if you had the will to move.

 

“Now,” he says, tone conversational as usual. “Today has been  _ extremely  _ stressful. You’re going to help me relax a little. You don’t mind, do you?” He chuckles. You hear the soft clink of his zipper. “Hold still.”

 

He fucks like he wants to kill you, every crushing, brutal thrust of his hips taking out the frustrations of the day on your body. The only sounds you can make alternate between screaming, and loud, fucked out moans that you try to stifle in the carpet before you realize that there’s no point. Your neighbors might hear, but fuck them, you don’t care if they hate you for this. Widowmaker will almost definitely hear, but you’re under no illusion that she doesn’t know what he’s doing to you.

 

You’re as loud as you’ve ever been, and Reaper  _ likes _ it, if the way he jerks you off is any indication. His long tongue laps the drying, flaking blood away from your back, and the cut stings like he rubbed it with sandpaper. Your moan cracks as Reaper gets the angle just  _ right, _ and the combination of pain and pleasure makes you come with a wail. It hurts. It fucking hurts so much, him leaving bruises on your hip and sinking his teeth into your shoulder, fifty or so needlelike punctures in the already abused skin. 

 

There’s no way he couldn’t have noticed you coming, but he keeps going anyway, even when it becomes  _ too much, too much,  _ and your moans morph into you whimpering, then begging, and then just crying for him to  _ stop, stop, wait five minutes.  _ Somehow you get your arms to move again, mustering the force of will to twist one behind you and try pushing him off. 

 

Your head is full of a rushing, buzzing noise and you can’t quite hear, but you think he might be laughing when his hand goes to grab your wrists again, a tentacle wrapping itself around your soft cock in its stead.

 

“Hey. Hey, it’s alright,” he croons, tentacles pulling your legs apart so he can fuck you in deep, slow strokes that leave you trembling, each one like a knife shaving away thin strips of your nerves. You squirm in their grip, but it’s no use. They might as well be made of iron.  _ “Calmar de una puta vez, _ alright? I’m trying to make you feel good here, you could show a little fucking appreciation.”

 

Appreciation. Right. When he fucks you until you come again, and again, until your orgasms are weak and dry, he’s doing you a favor. He’s  _ putting you first,  _ staving off his own orgasm so he can rail you against the floor mercilessly.

 

You’re not sure exactly how long it lasts, but you’re fairly sure several hours have passed when Reaper finally comes inside of you. He flipped you over around the fourth round, tentacles forcing your knees up to your chest, admiring the way your face contorted when the sensation became too much, and it did your body absolutely no favors. Every part of you is in pain. Your skull feels like someone took a hammer to it, your throat is raw, your limbs all ache from the positions he’s been holding them at, and god, it’s a miracle you’re not bleeding when he pulls out, letting cum trickle down your weak, sore thighs.

 

When he picks you up and unceremoniously dumps you in your bed, you don’t have the strength to protest.

  
“Sweet dreams,” he says, before smoking out through the door, and finally, finally leaving you alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u play [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZX14TMvBGFw) to set the mood
> 
> next chapter will have at least some plot in it i promise


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MAN this took a long time. i hope it's worth the wait. thank u to everyone who commented here or on my tumblr- i appreciate every bit of it, you all keep me going :D

You sleep like the dead. On some level, you’re grateful, because it’s been so fucking long since you’ve had a dreamless night, so long since you haven’t woken up in a cold sweat at some point, hyperventilating because you had a nightmare about being eaten alive by a monster made out of smoke and claws and so many  _ teeth. _

 

The feeling of gratitude immediately dissipates when it takes you ten minutes to sit up without feeling like you’re going to tear something. It’s a full-body hurt that you’ve come to associate with fucking him, or at least with him fucking you and you lying there like an incredibly sturdy blow-up doll. You spend a moment massaging some of the worst aches down into something more bearable, then reach for the aspirin on your bedside table, gulping down two. Childhood lessons about how it’s not good to dry swallow pills and it’s not good to take medication on an empty stomach flash through your head, but you shrug them off. Seeing as you’ll probably be dead before doing either of those things will damage you irreparably, you can’t bring yourself to really care.

 

In the time it takes for the meds to kick in (fast acting, your incredibly sore ass), you check the clock on your bedside table. It’s a little past seven p.m.- you slept almost an entire day, and you still feel like shit, unsurprisingly. Being in bed for that long did your cramped, tense muscles no favors, although they do feel better than they did that time on the floor.

 

You’re still naked, covered in blood and cum, but you really can’t be bothered to fix the second problem right now. Instead, you throw on the nearest pair of boxer shorts, and trudge out of your room, heading towards the kitchen, stopping only when you realize your two uninvited guests are  _ still in your house. _

 

They’re sitting on your couch, having what sounds like an argument. Their voices are low and tense, and they’re speaking a language that you can’t even recognize, much less translate. Widowmaker’s mouth is curved in a graceful frown, elegant eyebrows drawn, and you can’t exactly see Reaper’s face, but you assume he’s got a similar expression as he speaks, hands curled into fists on his lap.

 

You’ve got no idea what they’re talking about, and even less of an idea how to interrupt, so you pad as softly as you can past them, hoping you can get into the kitchen quietly and have something to eat before you have to deal with- whatever this is. Unfortunately for you, the floors are old, and you barely take two steps before one lets out a loud  _ creeeak,  _ and two heads whip around to look at you.

 

Widowmaker’s cold gaze runs up and down your entire body, taking in the dark purple bruises, the bite marks, the various body fluids which have dried tackily on your abused skin. A few months ago, you would have blushed and curled in on yourself to hide anything resembling nudity, but now all you feel is slightly worse about yourself as she appraises you like a particularly interesting piece of garbage. Her nose wrinkles, and she laughs.

 

“Mm, I should have known you had ulterior motives for bringing us here rather than to an  _ actual  _ safehouse,” she says, turning back to Reaper.

 

“Remind me again which Talon safehouses are actually stocked with medical supplies?” He bites back, but not without humor. “You know as well as I do that if you need something besides a weapon those places are useless. Saved your goddamn life.” He stretches out, putting his big metal boots up on your coffee table in a way that is almost definitely going to scratch the finish. “Can’t help the fact that doing so came with an extra treat for me.”

 

Glaring, you stalk past them to your kitchen. Your stomach is growling, possibly due to the fact that the only things that have been put in it for nearly 24 hours are cum and beer, and trying to talk to the two of them while you’re hungry is a quick way to snap and get yourself killed.

 

After you’ve downed a few frozen waffles, you walk quietly towards the living room again. You really don’t want them to even look at you right now, some of your modesty having returned when the hunger pangs faded away, but it’s not like you can climb along the fire escapes to get back to your room and take a shower. 

 

When you try to cautiously sneak by, you notice that they’re arguing again. It’s a little louder this time, and even though you can’t parse what they’re saying, Widowmaker looks angry. There’s a tension in her jaws and shoulders that wasn’t there before. 

 

You pause for a moment as he’s talking, long enough to see her expression cloud over. Long enough to see her wind up, and punch him in the face. Hard.

 

Everything freezes. You watch, terrified, waiting for him to do something, anything. Your muscles tense up, body yelling at you to  _ run  _ or at least  _ look away  _ from whatever’s about to happen.

 

But he doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t lash out like you would have assumed- he raises a hand, rubs at his jaw where her blow landed. Nods once. Like he’s acquiescing to her, or to whatever prompted their disagreement. 

 

“Apologies,” he mutters, gruffly, and you have to pause a moment to wonder exactly what fucking planet you’re on. Standing up, Reaper rolls his head from side to side, cracking the bones underneath (you assume it’s bones he’s cracking at least). “I still don’t think it’s necessary, but if you do, I won’t argue.”

 

A fey smile crosses her face again, wiping away most of the stormclouds. She still looks as cold as ever, but her anger has been appeased. You almost prefer her angry- at least she wore her emotions on her sleeve, then. She’s more terrifying when you have no idea what she’s thinking, and from the way she looks at you, whatever it is can’t be good.

 

“Good,” is all she says before standing up as well. She’s still looking at you, a flicker in her eyes that resembles amusement. Like a sadistic cat playing with the mouse it has cornered, right before it bites the thing’s head off. She scares you almost as much as he does, and she hasn’t touched you once. It’s not what she’s done to you that’s terrifying, it’s what she could do, and what she hasn’t done. She knows he’s hurting you- no doubt knows the graphic, terrible details of how he gets off on nearly killing you- and she doesn’t  _ care. _ Not an iota. 

 

It doesn’t hurt, exactly. You’re more or less numb to the coldness of the people around you. What you do feel is more of a seeping, horrible dread in the pit of your stomach, knowing that there’s no one there who has the ability to help you, and those who do are either the cause of or complicit in your abuse. Maybe your friends would give a shit if you told them, but he could rip them into shreds if they so much as  _ looked  _ in his direction. You’re cut off, drifting through your life alone, trying desperately to keep afloat, and you’re getting more tired by the day.

 

A small mercy- their argument apparently solved, they seem to be getting ready to leave. Widowmaker grabs her rifle from where she’d left it, propped up against one of your shelving units. She turns to face you at the door of your apartment, waving mockingly.

 

_ “Au revoir.  _ I will give you two a minute.” She adds a wink to the end of it, ruining the otherwise utterly dry delivery.

 

The door closes, and you’re alone with him again. The cuts on your back throb in time with your heartbeat, painful despite the numbing chemicals flooding through you.

 

“Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?” He asks, mocking.

 

You want to tell him to go fuck himself. Want to take his fucking head and crush it, even if it won’t do anything permanent. Blood roars in your ears, violent and desperate and frustratingly impotent and god, you could  _ scream.  _ But you don’t.

 

You grab him by the back of the neck, rip the mask off, and kiss him. Right on his ruined, fucked up, tooth-crowded mouth.  _ Fuck you, fuck you, fuckyoufuckyou.  _ You  _ bite,  _ gnawing inelegantly at his face until you taste something foul and bitter in your mouth. It doesn’t feel like it’s blood, but it has to be.  _ Fuck you. Fuck. You. _

 

When you’re finished, you shove him, hard. You’re half expecting him to kill you, right then and there, but you expect that most of the time around him anyway, and you’re fucking sick to death of walking on eggshells to keep him happy. Nerves frayed and trembling, you try to keep your hands from shaking as you point to the door.

 

“Get out of my goddamn house,” you say. 

 

Reaper touches a hand to his bleeding lip, pensively. He doesn’t seem angry. Almost… impressed, actually. You wish he was angry. You  _ wanted  _ him to be angry. You wanted him to be as furious at you as you are at him. When he pulls back and slams his forehead against your nose, it feels like it’s more out of obligation than any actual emotion you’ve made him feel.

 

In the exchange, you’ve come away with one thing, though- you don’t scream. Your nose is most likely broken, dripping blood down your face and into your throat, but you don’t scream. You glare at him instead, daring him to do something more.

 

He’s smiling. Genuinely smiling. It’s disgusting.

 

“See you soon,  _ niño,” _ he says, repositioning his mask, dissolving, and ghosting out of your apartment through the cracks in your door. When the last bit of him has disappeared, you’re left staring at the wall, holding your broken nose in one hand, trying to parse how you feel.

 

Kissing him… you’ve never done that before. At least, you never initiated it. When he wanted it, he kissed you, shoving his tongue halfway down your throat, needle teeth poking tiny holes in your lips. This is the first time you initiated anything besides violence, and it’s…

 

You tell yourself the excitement welling in your chest was from showing him up. From being an unexpected fucking monkey wrench in his sick power fantasy. It certainly wasn’t from the act of kissing. There’s no such thing as  _ intimacy _ between you two- he takes, and you let him, or you suffer. Now, you finally got a chance to take something back. That’s what’s exciting about it. That’s the truth.

 

You press a hand to your mouth, shaking off the phantom pressure of his lips.

 

-

 

In time, you heal. Your nose repairs itself poorly- you didn’t go to the hospital for it, sick of the way you get asked every time about abusive partners, as if you can do anything about it. At this point, it just feels like you’re being mocked. Besides, maybe if you become ugly enough, he’ll lose interest. Your body is on its way to becoming one solid mass of scar tissue, bruises almost constantly visible on your skin in some state of healing, bones hardening crookedly every time they’re broken.

 

To both his and your credit, you’re sturdier, now. You sliced your hand open on a piece of broken glass drinking with your few friends the other day, and didn’t even notice until one of them started screaming. Body hardening as your mind grows more fragile. Nearly cutting a finger off barely elicits a reaction, but if you see something move in the shadows on the way home, you immediately seize up in fear.

 

In the end, it turns out your paranoia was justified, though not for the reasons you expected. When he shows up, it’s almost never out of the dark, in the middle of nowhere. He prefers to make you feel unsafe in your own home, ghosting in through the crack in a window, or just through your front door. He feels powerful, you guess, invading your personal life like that. Like he owns you.

 

_ They _ don’t. When they come for you, it  _ is  _ out of the darkness.

 

You’re on your way home, down a quiet, cramped side street, and you feel something stinging the back of your neck. It’s irritating, like a bug, and you go to smack it away, and feel a dart.

 

“What the fuck-” is all you manage to get out, before you feel your face go numb, neck and chest following shortly. Your mind is a little slow on the uptake, staying painfully alert as you lose feeling in each of your limbs, and collapse to the ground, eyes glancing around desperately, looking for whoever fucking did this to you, even if you can’t do anything about it. 

 

Mouth falling open, you try to scream, but all that comes out is some sort of macabre gurgling noise, like you’re choking. Saliva drips out from between your useless lips, and a familiar blackness is starting to overtake your mind, but before you pass out, you see them. Three of them, dressed in black, nondescript helmets covering their faces. They look military, but not the type you’d go to for help.

 

“This him?” One of them says.

 

“Matches the description. He b… we’ve… mission…” The words fade in and out of static as you struggle to retain consciousness. Unfortunately, one of them notices it.

 

“... awake... do some....”

 

There’s pain at the back of your skull, hard and insistent through the fog of your thoughts. Then, nothing.

 

-

 

When you wake up, it’s every movie torture room stereotype you can think of. A shitty, concrete room with one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, your hands cuffed together behind you, legs physically taped to the folding chair they’ve let you sit on. You’re completely naked, hair standing on end in the cold, icy water dripping in rivulets down your body. You blink once, twice, and the world swims into focus.

 

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey,” someone says, sing-songing it. You turn your head to the side, and catch sight of the man you assume is your tormentor for the evening. There are two others besides him, but he’s the only one not wearing a mask. He looks about forty, grey dusting his mousey brown hair at the temples. There’s a big, mean looking scar crossing his face, going from top right to bottom left, right across his right eye, which is milky and unfocused. His stocky arms are crossed in front of his chest. “Rise and shine, princess. We’ve let you sleep for a while, but now it’s time to get down to business.”

 

You have to laugh. You can’t help it- the guy is a walking cliché.

 

“What’s so funny, sunshine?”

 

“Nothing. Sorry. Keep going.” 

 

You look over the equipment they’ve set up, painfully obvious in its arrangement, clearly attempting to get a reaction out of you. Clamps. Knives. A sledgehammer. A big red plastic container of something that might be gasoline, might be acid, or might just be water. Chains. A generator. You should be scared. You should. You’re not.

 

“I’m gonna give it to you real simple, sweetheart- what we’ve got here is an exchange. Goods for services. You provide the former, we provide the latter, and everyone gets what they want real easy.” He uncrosses his arm, and turns, rummaging around on the table he was just leaning against. “What we want is simple- everything you know about the agent known as ‘Reaper’. You give us that, and we let you leave here with the same amount of teeth you started with. You don’t-” he turns around, showing off the two long, metal rods he’s holding now, tapping them together to produce a spray of blue sparks, “-and, well. You  _ seem _ smart enough to figure out what happens next.” 

 

Again, you have to laugh. You can’t _ not. _

 

“You wanna know about him? Jesus, you could have just come to my house and asked. Like I give enough of a shit about him to protect him from whatever you wanna do to him.” You sound hysterical, even to your own ears. “Fuckin’ cyclops over here wasting my goddamn time. You wanna know about him? He’s a fucked up, sadistic bastard who for some reason thinks it’s amusing to take out whatever horrible things life has done to him out on me. You see this?”

 

Cyclops’ façade- that’s a good nickname, you decide. Suits him- has cracked a little. You can see it in the pursing of his lips. He looks where you’re nodding your head, at the massive, angry red scar on your side.

 

“He fucking _ shot me in the side _ and then shoved his dick in it. I’m pretty sure he’s immortal. Face is fucked up, but don’t ask to see it. Has a friend with a weird name, she’s blue and scares the shit out of me. I think he kills people for a living. Friend mentioned something about Talon. Don’t know who the hell they are, but I don’t give a fuck. I want him out of my fucking life.” You stop to take a breath, still giggling intermittently. “Sorry I can’t help you any more than that. If you do manage to kill him, give me a call though, okay? I want to fucking  _ piss on his corpse.” _

 

All three of the men are staring at you. “Holy shit,” the one on the right, Faceless Goon #1, says.

 

“I don’t believe you,” Cyclops says. “What you’re saying is contrary to all the intel we have.”

 

“Reaper is  _ very literally _ up my ass, so I’d trust me if I was you. You know how I met him? I was  _ drunk,  _ okay? I was drunk and walking home alone, and I happened to try and take a shortcut. Saw him in the alley there, with someone else. Didn’t realize he’d fucking ripped that  _ someone  _ apart until the next day the police came to my apartment and asked me  _ where were you last night when so and so got murdered,  _ and my only excuse was that a mysterious stranger escorted me home, and spent the next three hours fucking me against the floor.” 

 

It’s not a fucking love story. It’s not a meet-cute. You realize what it was now, after months- killing someone made him horny, and you were the nearest convenient warm body. You weren’t anything special, but he kept coming back anyway. Maybe he thought you were pretty. Maybe you were just the one available person who didn’t scream when you saw him drenched in other peoples’ blood. Whatever Reaper found appealing about you, you hate him for it.

 

You hate the man talking, too, and you barely know him. For a moment, the thought of killing him enters your mind. Grabbing the sledgehammer and letting it fall on his neck, just hard enough to crush his windpipe, so you could watch him choke. The thought is unexpectedly arousing, and your dick gives a valiant twitch, despite the cold. 

 

That’s something that never would’ve happened to you if not for Reaper- before him, your interest in violence was superficial. You liked action flicks and bloody video games. Maybe you felt like you could hurt people sometimes, but they were intrusive thoughts you entertained for a moment before shoving them down like the horrified puritan you were. Not so much now. You dwell on the violent thought, let it coalesce into a full fantasy, smile dreamily at Cyclops. It’s a comfortable bit of disassociation, one you’re more than willing to indulge in.

 

“He’s hiding something,” Cyclops says, approaching you. There’s a crease in his forehead, a sneer on his face. He’s  _ angry, _ you realize. Something you said. This isn’t about information anymore- he’s just saying that to justify it to the two goons, or maybe to himself.

 

He wants to hurt you. You can feel it radiating in waves off of him, but compared to Reaper, the intent is pathetically weak. He presses the rods to your throat, and you jump involuntarily as they spark, burning your skin, making you wheeze and convulse. He lets you stay like that for a moment, before ripping them away.

 

“Ow,” you say as soon as your can talk again, sarcastically. You’re coughing, your voice sounds weak, and there’s blood in the drool dripping from your lips.

 

“Not enough for you, sweetheart?” He laughs, and jabs the rod into your abdomen, right over your bladder. The shock is intense, and you lose control of your bladder, but it doesn’t  _ hurt.  _ It’s not going to do anything permanent to you, and you’re already naked. Pissing yourself isn’t any more embarrassing than that. “Tell. Me. What. You. Know.”

 

Once your body has stopped convulsing, you laugh right back. “If this is your idea of foreplay, you’re gonna have to work a little bit harder.”

 

His face twists into an expression of disgust. “Oh, princess, we’re only  _ just _ getting started.”

 

As little skill as he has at torture as an actual effective method of getting information, Cyclops proves himself a decent enough sadist in his own right. He electrocutes you until you nearly have a heart attack, tasting metal in your mouth. When that stops amusing him, he pulls out the pliers and goes for your nails, peeling them off of your toes, then your fingers, one by one. He flays the skin off of your left forearm and plays with the muscles underneath, and then sews the wound shut with steel wire, tugging on the crude, messy stitches. He has the two goons hold your legs out and still, and breaks both your kneecaps with the sledgehammer. 

 

It’s excruciating. You scream until you lose your voice, crying, covered in piss from when you lost control of your bladder the second time, and god knows what other fluids. Sweat. Blood. Bile. You threw up when he bent the middle finger of your right hand back far enough that you could hear it break and dislocate all at once, the tip of it touching your wrist on the other side. 

 

This whole process is distorting your sense of time, too, fucking with your head. You might have been here for hours, or days, or just minutes- you honestly can’t tell. Every part of you is aching, bleeding. He nailed your feet into the floor, and pulled the chair out from under you, watched you tear holes through your own flesh and muscle as you tried to get up.

 

You’re crying, screaming, and  _ god _ you’re hard. Have been for a while now- your dick is the only thing on your body that he hasn’t deigned to touch. Maybe orders, maybe it’s a personal aversion, but fuck, if  _ he  _ was here you would have came already.

 

“Reaper…” You can’t help the moans, loud and unashamed even as tears roll down your cheeks from the overwhelming pain in every inch of you. “Oh, fuck.  _ Reaper.” _

 

“What the  _ fuck  _ is wrong with him?” You hear one of the goons say. “I mean, we’ve had masochists in here before, but this is… this is some sick shit.”

 

“We’ve dealt with people like him before,” Cyclops replies, matter-of-factly. “Other Reaper cases. He attracts- or is attracted to- a very specific type of person. Call ‘em masochists if you want, but the truth is, they’re all just big sluts for pain. Isn’t that right?” The last part is yelled, loud enough that there’s no question whether or not you can hear it. “You’re just a big painslut, aren’t you?”

 

As if on cue, your tongue lolls out, giving you the appearance of an excitable dog. Your brain isn’t working particularly well right now- the cocktail of pain and arousal is fucking with you, and you can barely concentrate on anything beyond a singleminded desire. Cyclops seems to take that as a  _ yes,  _ and he crosses the room, grabbing you by the hair, and lifting up your head so that the other two can see it. 

 

“Look at him. He fucking loves it.” The hand in your hair tightens, and you let out a small moan.

 

_ “Reaper.” _ Your thoughts have narrowed themselves down to a fixed point. For the first time, you  _ want _ him. The cheap imitation, the dollar-store knockoff, isn’t doing it for you. He’s not cruel enough. Not brutal enough. Not precise enough. Reaper knows how to take you apart with just his words, and put you back together again. He was right when he said you wouldn’t be able to fuck without thinking of him, but he miscalculated- you can’t even get hurt without thinking of him. “Fuck- _ fuck me-” _

 

It’s the first time you’ve wanted him- the real him- and he’s not even here to appreciate it. Cyclops is, though. He pulls your hair tighter, leans down to whisper in your ear,

 

“Well, if that’s what you want…”

 

Hazy as your thoughts are, you know there’s something  _ wrong  _ when you feel the handcuffs unlock, feel hands dragging your naked body over to one of the tables, practically throwing you over it. Weak from blood loss, hands and feet crippled and knees broken, you don’t have the strength to resist, whimpering as Cyclops kicks your legs apart, rough hand rubbing over your thighs and ass.

 

It’s wrong. It’s not  _ his  _ hand, and you feel yourself start to panic.

 

“Wait-” you gasp, “don’t-”

 

“Johnson, the ECG jelly, please.” You’re still whimpering, pathetically, begging for him to stop with what little voice you have left. Deep down, you know it’s useless- you know he’s getting off on the idea that he’s finally breaking you as much as the sex itself- but you can’t stop yourself, half delirious from everything you’ve been put through.

 

“Boss, are you sure this is a good idea?” One of the goons speaks up, even as he complies with the boss’ orders.

 

“If the little painslut wants to get fucked so bad, it would be cruel to deny him. Right?” Fingers inside of you, two at once. At least he has the courtesy to use plenty of lubricant to ease the way. “You can have your turn next. Don’t fucking act like you haven’t wanted to know exactly what’s so great about this ass.” 

 

Stretching you open, touching you just enough to have you making small noises of pleasure, even as your eyes grow wet. You’re on the verge of hyperventilating, a situation only exacerbated when you hear the clink of a zipper being undone.

 

“Boss, look-”

 

“After all, this is  _ Reaper’s bitch,”  _ Cyclops continues, pulling out his fingers. He spreads your ass open with one hand, pressing the hot, blunt head of his cock lightly against your hole.

 

_ “Boss, please-”  _ The goon’s voice is frantic, but you can’t figure out why. After a day of torturing you, why should rape be any worse?

 

Whatever it is, Cyclops ignores it. “I’m gonna fuck you like  _ he  _ fucks you,” he murmurs in your ear, and you shudder away from it.

 

_ “Are you, now.” _

 

Everything freezes. Face down on the table, you can’t see anything, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere. The hands on your ass are trembling, gripping your skin hard enough to bruise- but not out of arousal. The temperature in the room feels like it’s dropped at least five degrees, and the silence is deafening. No one wants to be the one to talk first. No one wants to make  _ him  _ mad.

 

“Sir, I’m…” Cyclops finally breaks the silence, voice incredibly small and weak, lacking all of its previous bravado. “I’m extremely sorry. My orders-”

 

“- were to hurt him, I know. To find out if I had told him anything actually useful. To  _ break _ him, if need be.” Cold sweat breaks out along the line of your spine. His voice isn’t angry. Someone who didn’t know him as well might have assumed he  _ wasn’t _ angry. But you know better. The fury is cold, and slow, and utterly unmistakable to your ear.

 

“What did your orders say about touching him?”

 

Cyclops grips your flank harder. You hear him gulp.

 

“Sir-”

 

_ “What did they say?”  _ Everyone flinches away from the sound of his voice; from the sheer power behind it. You’re terrified. The limbs you can still feel are shaking, beyond your control, and you’re so hard it hurts.

 

“Orders said we weren’t to- to fuck him. No trauma to the genitals and no rape in any form. I’m sorry, sir, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he goes on and on, voice becoming increasingly agitated the longer he gets no response. It’s almost cathartic, in a way, to hear someone else trapped by that awful, quiet power. To see someone besides yourself afraid of him.

 

When Cyclops’ begging has subsided to a quiet murmur,  _ he _ finally deigns to acknowledge it.

 

“Get off of him,” he says. Immediately the pressure at your back recedes, leaving you grasping at the wood of the table with your mutilated hands for support. You feel leather on your legs, waist, and when you’re pulled ever so  _ gently  _ away, you find yourself held up by a pair of strong arms, staring up into Reaper’s expressionless, bone-white mask. Lacking the energy to say anything substantial, you just smile, dazed, into the face of a man- or something similar- that you don’t have the words to describe how you feel about.

 

You’re grateful to see that mask, for possibly the first and last time ever.

 

“Hey,” you settle with, nuzzling your face against his chest. He makes a sound that almost seems like a snort, before laying you down in the chair you’d spent your entire torture session in. It’s comforting, in a way. You feel  _ safe-  _ another new emotion around him that, if your brain was properly working, you’d probably be incredibly disturbed by. As it is, you just watch as Reaper slowly but deliberately stalks after Cyclops, until the man is backed up against the table.

  
  


“You wanted to fuck like I fuck, huh?” Reaper mutters, low and rumbling, hand tracing down Cyclops’ chest. “If you were really curious, you could have just asked. I’m always happy to give a demonstration.”

 

Cyclops’ shoulders relax by a degree. He’s still on edge, but he thinks he might be in the clear. He thinks he might live through this. He doesn’t know Reaper like you do.

 

“Would you like that?”

 

“Sir, anything you’re willing to teach me, I would be happy to learn,” he says, words spilling out messily. You want to cut his tongue out, stop him from lying, from kissing ass, from grating on your eardrums. “Please.”

 

“Alright.”

 

The blur of movement is hard to follow. The sickening  _ squelching  _ noise is the only indication at first to what’s going on. You hear it before you see Cyclops’ horrified face, the color draining from his cheeks, the long, black-handled knife Reaper has thrust into his chest, right below his sternum. It’s not an instantly fatal wound- between the lungs, under the heart, it’ll take a few minutes to bleed out if Reaper pulls the knife out. Which he does, by a few inches, before shoving it straight back in once, twice, again, and again, stabbing him with long, slow strokes. Watching feels terribly voyeuristic, a pang of jealousy resonating through you as this mediocre, unimportant  _ nobody _ gets lavished with  _ his _ attention.

 

Cyclops groans in pain, and Reaper hums, breathes, moans as he twists the blade and the sides of the wound turn jagged and start to leak. The slide of flesh is filthy and wet, knife slick with fluid as it moves in and out smoothly. Cyclops must feel stuffed full with Reaper inside him so deep, but he seems unappreciative of it.

 

But you need it- you need  _ him.  _ You  _ want _ him. Fully admitting it to yourself, here in the moment, is easier than you thought it would be. You want every bit of his brutality, his rough touches, his monstrous, terrible form. You want it all. You want him to touch you, and only you, and you resent this  _ person _ who’s taking up his time, his energy, his  _ attention  _ that should belong to  _ you.  _ Doesn’t he know how long you’ve been waiting for it? He must have seen that you can’t take care of yourself, not with your broken fingers and pulled nails. 

 

_ “This _ is how I fuck,” Reaper practically  _ snarls,  _ dragging the knife down. It’s a bloody, horrific climax, opening a hole wide enough that you can see Cyclops’ insides, pink and threatening to spill out. He’s still alive, somehow, crying and just barely holding on, face going grey as shock starts to set in, but  _ alive.  _

 

Reaper glances at you, and a thought hits you out of nowhere- he’s putting on a show for you. He wants you to watch. Cares, in his own fucked up, horrible way, wants to scare you or turn you on or both. There’s not much of a disconnect between the two emotions for you anymore.

 

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” You hear yourself say, thick and mumbling, nearly incoherent. “Finish him already. C’mon, just fucking- fucking do it.”

 

He pulls the knife out, and Cyclops collapses immediately, grasping at his chest and stomach, trying with his last bit of strength to hold himself closed. He must know he’s not going to make it- even if he has enough blood left, if his organs aren’t irreparably damaged, the shock is going to kill him. No one here is willing to help him with that.

 

In some ways, it feels like an out-of-body experience. You remember what it felt like to be gutted, bleeding out in some sad, miserable, dirty corner of the earth, sure that no one around was going to help you. Certain that you were going to die by his hand, slowly and painfully, as your brain stopped getting the oxygen it needed and the neurons turned off one by one.

 

But you didn’t. You lived. He let you- no,  _ chose _ you to live.

 

Reaper makes no such choice for Cyclops, watching with amusement as the ex-torturer draws a few last shaky breaths. Then, he turns to the other two, the goons who have been standing there the entire time, silent, shaking, unwilling to interfere on their commander’s behalf lest they meet the same fate as him.

 

“I only need one of you to tell everyone what happened here,” he says, pensively.

 

The two stand there for a moment, considering what he’s implying. One of them- the one Cyclops referred to as Johnson earlier- bolts for the door as soon as he figures it out. Reaper watches him go, chuckles softly.

 

“Smart kid.” Almost appreciative, before turning to the other one. “He’ll go places. You, however, aren’t leaving this room.”

 

The other goon shrinks back, glancing frantically from Cyclops’ rapidly exsanguinating body, to Reaper, to you. “Sir, I didn’t touch him, not once, I promise, I- I don’t even like men, okay, I have a wife back home, and two kids, and-”

 

He doesn’t finish his pleas. Reaper turns to mist, feeds himself through the cracks in the goon’s mask, and he goes silent. You watch, utterly fascinated, as his body swells, stomach distending, limbs bloating, before he pops like a balloon. Every part of his body explodes all at once, showering you with chunks of skin, guts, other things that you don’t even want to  _ try  _ and put a name to. You turn to the side and throw up, not for the first time that day- your stomach is almost empty, though, and what you get out is almost entirely bile, burning your throat on the way up.

 

He reforms himself, clean and put together, and for a moment, while he’s still partially smoke and the room’s one bare bulb is shining behind him, he looks like some kind of god. The Old Testament type, cruel and without pity, gleefully enacting vengeance on whoever he pleases, demanding worship, submission, more, more,  _ more. _

 

Leather clad hands unzip his pants as he glides over to you, and in seconds his hard, thick cock is in your face, and his voice is roughly ordering you,  _ “open up,”  _ the only warning you get before he’s shoving himself down your throat. You’re sore from screaming, from having your vocal cords and lungs barbecued by electroshocks, but you try to accommodate him anyway, staring up at that damn mask as you swallow around him. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t let you set a comfortable speed, just grips the sides of your head and fucks your face.

 

For the first time, you don’t feel like just a hole. He wants you, specifically. He killed people for  _ you, _ because they hurt  _ you _ and only  _ he _ gets to do that, only  _ he _ gets to touch you and fuck you and  _ hurt you.  _ Your body, your pleasure, your pain, all of them belong to  _ him. _ They’re his property, and the defilement of them, the idea that someone else has a  _ right  _ to them is tantamount to stealing.

 

When he comes, he pulls out, leaves white streaks all over your face. His moan, loud and unashamed, sounds like  _ victory. _ Just to drive the point home. No one gets to mark you like this- except him, because you’re  _ his.  _ You have the scars on your body and on your mind to prove it. 

 

The thought, coupled with the splash of heat on your cheeks and forehead, is what makes you come. He doesn’t need to touch you, doesn’t bother with it- but he still pulls an orgasm out of you, hard enough to make you see white.

 

Sitting in a dirty, dark room, covered in blood, semen, piss, vomit, half-unconscious from the pain your ruined body is causing you, you think maybe you’ve never hated someone half as much as you hate him.

  
And maybe, just maybe, you’ve never loved someone half as much, either.


End file.
